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Tuesday, December 30, 2014

Mountain climbing for Christmas . . . definitely not our usual tradition. Though being on the move, sleeping outside, being cold and far from home all are probably appropriate ways to remember the reality of the first Christmas.

Our trek started on the 22nd when we went to pick Luke up from the airport. Of course that in itself was complicated by the random departure times and flight shuffling by Ethiopian Airlines, the nightmare of uncertainty. He wasn't on his flight, but as we huddled with other expectant and disappointed families we took hope in the rumor that many passengers would be on the next flight only a couple of hours later. We knew he hadn't checked any bags, so we placed bets on his ability to fly through customs. Sure enough, he was the first passenger to emerge.

From there we drove south to Amboseli National Park on the Kenya/TZ border. Our plan was to camp in the wilderness with the views of Mt. Kilimanjaro in the distance. In all our years in Uganda, our essential family get-away was Campsite 2 in Queen Elizabeth National Park, nothing but space and sky and scrub and animals. The Kenya Wildlife Service is a depressing subject for another post, but suffice it to say that they refused our park card, extracted a ton of money from us, then mentioned the public campsite was "flooded", then refused to cancel our payment and let us leave . . . then we drove to the campsite which was actually NOT flooded, so we set up camp, only to be accosted by territorial Massai herders who claimed the land (which by gps and by signage was INSIDE the park) was actually theirs so our park payments didn't count and we needed to pay them . . . so we took down our tents in the gathering dusk and drove back to the gate to camp in the very non-wilderness mosquito-infested park headquarters by the gate. It was a beautiful sunset drive through the park, with Kili's snow-capped peak peeking through the clouds and wildebeest and elephant meandering by the road, and we grilled tandoori chicken and naan and salvaged a fun evening, but the bureaucracy was draining.

The next morning Julia woke up pale and vomiting, not an auspicious beginning to what was to be a major endurance test for the week. We packed up and braved the border to TZ, the usual hassles of bringing a car across, fees for this and that, and on the TZ side the sinking realization that Julia's yellow-fever vaccination card was missing. However it was so chaotic that no one noticed. We finally met up with our climbing contact at the park gate in the early afternoon. Then it turned out that the park passes for Kili had to be put into our passports, so they needed to travel with them to another gate, meaning that we could not start the climb as anticipated that day but had to camp at the gate. It was a lovely grassy site and in the end quite helpful to give Julia some recovery time, plus it rained so we could shelter. Plus there was an endless loop of Christmas music playing, and a lighted disco ball, and a rousing game of hearts, so we made the best of it. We had chosen to go up the Rongai route and down the Marangu route, a less-traveled alternative from North-East to South-East.

DAY 1: Rongai gate to Simba Camp (6,000+ to 8,400 ft) This was a pleasant walk through pine forests, gradually climbing to a campsite by a river. Colobus monkeys, leisurely conversations, and our guides constantly telling us to slow down before they figured out these kids don't walk slowly. Again this day was shorter than we expected, but we didn't push to go further since Julia was still struggling with her GI bug.

The daily routine was a wake-up at dawn with ginger tea delivered to our tents (3 little 2-man tents) and warm water to wash face and hands. Then breakfast in the mess tent, a small structure that covered a folding table and six folding stools. We would set off while the porters took down the tents and generally arrive about the same time as them at the next campsite. Lunch on the trail or, if the day was short, at the next site. Lots of rest and reading time, an early dinner hunched around the table in the mess tent trying not to spill our salty soup in spite of the squeeze and slope. At the end of the meal the three guides would slip in, hunched in the small space, and give us the briefing for the next day. Once they realized Luke was fluent in Swahili and the rest of us passably coherent in understanding, they got a kick out of doing all this in Swahili. Shivering into our sleeping bags shortly after sunset to read and sleep until dawn. So many cups of hot tea, popcorn and biscuits, carbs galore. Stars. Latrines. Iodine pills to purify stream water.

But day one was the 24th, Christmas Eve, so I pulled the fun battery-operated string of lights out (thanks Melissa H!) and hung the kids' stockings in the mess tent, and passed out candy-canes to all our porters and guides and cook.

DAY 2: Simba to Theti (Third Cave) Camp (8,400 to 12,500 ft). Christmas! Before breakfast I slipped chocolate and little stuffed animals (a family tradition) into the stockings. We read a devotion and celebrated with millet porridge before ascending through the alpine zone of scrub pine, red hot poker flowers, gladiolas and black-berry-like vines, sorrel and heather, the stark rocky beauty. The kids hummed LOTR themes for Riders of Rohan appropriate to the territory of boulders and streams. This day was about 4 hours of hiking and an hour of rest. Buffalo droppings and hoof prints, swooping enormous pied crows, hidden alpine chats, but mostly not much life this high. By the time we arrived at the camp, the clouds had precipitated into a chilling misty rain, driving us to huddle in our tents.

DAY 3: Theti to Kibo camp (12,500 to 15,400 ft). The tents were crunchy with frost when we peeled back our flaps, and a clear pink sunrise shone on the crater rim to our west. It was 29 degrees as we ate breakfast. Today's hike took us across saddle between the eastern craggy secondary peak and the higher volcanic crater rim. We were above the clouds, which seemed to follow but not catch us as we ascended in sunshine. Three hours through high cold desert, wind-sculpted rocks, tiny dry everlasting flowers clinging to to the dusty ground. The Mawenzi peak looked mysterious and intimidating, covered in jagged ice and snow to our left as we skirted around the higher peak to our right. Our guide pointed out a plane that had crashed on a sightseeing tour a couple years ago. Paths converged towards Kibo, which was our first taste of the Kilimanjaro crowd. Clusters of tents, the smell of various cooks, climbers in their expensive matching gear, porters laughing and greeting, strong equatorial sunshine unfiltered by much atmosphere, freezing breezes, breathless just walking around. An early dinner and trying to sleep before darkness, knowing our "night" was over after 11 pm.

DAY 4: SUMMIT DAY. Kibo thru Gilman's Point to Uhuru Peak back to Kibo and down to Horombo (15,400 ->19,341->12,327 ft.). We were awakened and given hot tea as we bundled into every layer we could possibly manage, shuffling in the dark, fitting on gloves and adjusting poles. Our peak ascent started at 11:45 pm, aiming to be at the peak for sunrise. We passed a couple of groups that had left earlier and were soon climbing blindly into the pitch dark, only the outline of the crater rim against the stars above us. Winding ever upwards, back and forth across the steep scree slope. The Kilimanjaro shuffle, a slow steady pace designed to take us up another 4 thousand feet in thin air, without dying. Every hour or so we stopped to drink and rest, take time-lapse star photos, rub our freezing fingers together. Our guides sang, military-like chants and Swahili songs & rap with verses including all our names. I prayed and recited Bible verses to keep my mind occupied, focusing on Julia's steps ahead of me (I quickly abandoned my hand-held flashlight and depended on the light of her headlamp). I am glad we couldn't see too far ahead. Just follow the guides, stay in the line, keep walking in the few feet of light, all else a black void, on and on. Julia was really flagging. She was still recovering from her gastroenteritis, and had spent a semester near sea level. The last thousand feet, Jack started pep talking in a very passable Bane (Batman) voice, then transitioned to an Obama impersonation, telling the story of a girl named Julia who inspired him in her determination to conquer the mountain. Our guides were in stitches. He kept up the monologue, step after step, and Julia kept going. The last bit is a rocky boulder climb to Gilman's Point, on the crater rim. It was nearly 5 am, so we only rested briefly then began to walk around the crater, now on deep slick snow and rock. The sky to the east began to lighten as we worked our way up towards Uhuru Peak. The path was mostly bare rock and scree now, but we could see the wavy jagged walls of the shrinking glaciers down the slope below us. And then we were there. The Peak of Africa, high in the sky, 6:06 am. Only two other male climbers were up there at the same time as us, though we passed dozens later on our way down. The timing was perfect. We watched the sun rise. Mt. Meru rose through clouds to the west. The inside of the crater came to light, steep slopes and snow. We were freezing. Pictures. Celebration. Goal accomplished. Of the thousands and thousands of hikers, only 40% reach the peak. We were so thankful that we all made it up there together.

It was too cold to stay long. Soon we were heading back down, back around the rim of the crater, this time able to see just how steeply the snow dropped off, how intimidating the boulders below were. Back to Gilman's point, then down the rocks to the nearly vertical scree. Instead of carefully winding, we could bound. Big sliding steps, like skiing, straight down the slope. Aching muscles. Down and down. Beautiful clear views. At Kibo we rested in our tents for an hour, ate "lunch", and re-packed to descend to Horombo. Another few hours of walking, first through the desert saddle and then following streams past tussocks and senecia, improbable plants. The afternoon clouds gathered, the peak disappeared, and soon we were being pelted with hail, tiny icy white crystals. Mud and cold. So so tired. Finally, Horombo camp, our last night in tents. Yeah.

DAY 5: Horombo to Mandara (12,327 to 6,500). The last day started with the obligatory group photo with porters, Uhuru peak just visible in the clear morning behind us. Perhaps the low point of the trip was being informed that while we paid an all-inclusive package (which was about half the average rate so a good deal, but still expensive), everyone involved expects large tips. We had brought tips on the order of a tip not a salary. We had what we had. This was the only day that involved many, many people on the trail. Porters and hikers, coming up and going down. Most of the time our little family group moved relatively quickly and alone with our trailing guides, but occasionally we melded into and moved through larger tours. Germans and Japanese mostly, some cheery and some gasping their "Jambo's". The path wound around shoulders of the mountain, the peak coming in and out of visibility in the clear morning. More and more flowers, bridges over gullies splashing with water. Our last lunch at the Mandara camp, and then through rainforest to the gate. Burning calves and quads, stepping down, rocky paths, on and on. I tripped on a rock and skinned my knee, and Scott stopped to duct tape emerging blisters, but we were remarkably injury-free. Julia brightened with each hundred feet down. At the final gate, we were given our official certificates for reaching the peak and headed into Moshi for a night in a budget motel, tepid showers, cold drinks, Man U football on the TV, and rest before the drive back to Kenya. I had planned an extra day to visit friends in TZ but by that time Julia's bug was affecting me, and the kids staged a we-are-ready-to-go-home coup. So we rose early the next morning for our last Kili views and hit the road north.

This was a highly redemptive week. Exactly two years ago, on Christmas Eve 2012, Caleb had a serious motorcycle accident that destroyed his left knee, tearing through three of the four ligaments and nearly ending his Air Force dream. He has worked hard, both with constant physical therapy after two surgeries, and academically, to hang in there. To be able to climb Mt. Kilimanjaro seemed like an impossible dream back then. We are so grateful for God's healing. The number of days the six of us spend together anymore is small, precious, limited. We are grateful for hours of walking, meandering conversations about classes and friends and the future. This was also the completion of a quest of sorts, as a family we have now climbed the three highest mountains in Africa (Kili, Mt. Kenya, and Mt. Stanley in the Rwenzoris). God often calls people to the mountaintop, away from normal life into the bright thin air of glory, to get their attention. We are listening as we enter 2015.

And we are grateful to our parents whose generous gifts to us helped us to afford this adventure. We are blessed.

Lastly, if anyone is still reading. We told you in our Christmas letter that Scott had signed up to go to Liberia. This was something God laid on his heart back in September when ebola was spiraling out of control. In the midst of crisis, it turned out to be unexpectedly difficult to organize a way to go. In fact he went through five organizations before finding one that had the capacity to even answer emails and phone calls and hook him up with an ebola treatment unit. He was supposed to leave Jan 2, but when we returned yesterday we found the organization asking him to be "on hold" a little longer as they re-assess the situation in light of recent declines in the infection rates. So he may be leaving a week or so later, or the possibility exists that he may not go at all. We don't know. Please pray for clarity. He still wants to go if there is need.

Merry Christmas to all of you. We are back at Kijabe, still on leave a few more days, to celebrate the New Year and face goodbyes before school and work and life turn back to normal once more. Hope your Christmas was equally full of memories.

Sunday, December 21, 2014

These twin girls graced my last call night, and are an appropriate Christmas image. I was in the NICU around midnight and heard there was a mom in labor with twins. The first time I peeked my head in it was chaotic, too many people and no babies in sight, so I went back to finish doing a lumbar puncture, then returned. The mom was described as "mentally retarded", and I am pretty sure she was Down's. 22 years old, but mentally like an 8 or 9 year old, and terrified of the pain. She had a saint of a mother who was trying to coach her through it, but clearly everyone in the room was getting very frustrated with her. She would promise to push, but when the contractions came she went berserk, or crossed her legs writhing, or gave little three-second push attempts. I jumped into the fray, taking her left hand and leg while her mom coached on the right, talking, cajoling, explaining, trying to help her. At one point even her mom walked away and she started to wail, more worried that her mom was mad at her than that she was in labor. She was so sweet, so scared, so eager to please, but so unable to do what she needed to do. So unfair. The OB on call decided to take her for a C-section. I'm the only one who was thinking, if this is Down Syndrome, she has a 50/50 chance of each twin being affected. Well, the least I could do was advocate to get her mom in the room with her, which we did. And to give the babies the best start we could.

And out came two little girls, looking perfectly formed, crying. Hooray for this brave mother, who will have the joy of holding and feeding and watching these children. Hooray for the long-suffering grandmother, who will be the primary caretaker. Hooray that I was wrong about Down's or the odds were ever in her favor or God gave this family a major break.

Down's gets to me because of my nephew, who is equal parts handful and wonder, love and willfulness. Imagining him trying to understand and go through this kind of pain breaks my heart. I was texting with my kids in the US after the delivery (perks of time zones, even at 2 or 3 am I have family awake) and tried to articulate the reason this story gets to me. I think it is the combination of innocence and pain. Which is the Christmas story. Mary, inexperienced sexually, young, away from home, in labor. To have Jesus, the ultimate innocence of the Son of God combined with the ultimate pain of the cross.

May you this Christmas find the present reality of a God who took on all of that, for us, for love.

And don't expect to hear from us for the next week or so. Assuming Luke is truly at the airport, we are out the door in the next hour to head to climb Kilimanjaro as a family. Off the grid, on our feet, and up to the top of Africa for the next week. Merry Christmas.

And no more so than when trying to gather our widely scattered children home.

First there are tickets to figure out, months ahead of time, guessing exam schedules, holding out for the best prices. Then there are the hopeful hints to friends to pick them up from dorms and take them to the airport, something we can't do for them as distant parents. For Caleb there is a mound of paperwork to leave the country, and to enter Kenya. Then they have to make it through a trying semester, finish classes, study, stay up into the late hours of the night, tie up projects, write papers. And we plan ways to drive two hours to the airport on this end, to arrange for work and life to allow the gap for the 5-hour round-trip ordeal. Times three. A few days before there are flurries of texts and phone calls about what to bring perhaps, or about what we'll do together, or packages to be received from team mates ordering American this-and-that. There are reminders (or we forget to remind) about getting cash for travel, about early checking in, about how to transfer planes in Europe.
When it finally comes time for the kids to travel, everyone has already invested quite a bit. So when the in-the-airport texts come saying : Mom, can you please call, it's kind of a crisis here . . . My heart frays, for sure. For Julia the issue was that she was returning to Kenya on the end of a round trip ticket which began at graduation. We know that any American traveler can pay for a tourist visa, but they were unhappy with her expired Kenyan dependents' pass and her lack of a documented return trip. I guess they worry that Kenya will reject her and they will have to fly her back at their own expense. I was able to quickly go home and email her one-way return-to-US in January ticket on another airline, and talk to the person on the phone. Whew.
For Caleb, I slept through the first struggle. It is never good to wake up and find 17 missed texts from 3 to 4 am, saying things like "Luke, can you get Mom to wake up?". By 6 when I saw them it was all over, but the initial United Airlines person who was checking Caleb in flatly refused because the back of his well-worn passport is, literally, frayed. It went through the wash a year or so ago. He's been to a half dozen countries with it since, no problems. But this guy decided it was an illegal travel document, and suggested Caleb delay three days. As you might imagine, his semester is extremely demanding. He hasn't been home here in a year. Three days would make him miss our Kili climb. He was pretty distraught. In the end he walked away to make phone calls, looked up rules, decided the worst that could happen would be that he'd be detained along the way, and decided he would take the chance. He went back and got a different agent who didn't blink an eye.
But his near-misses were far from over. He flew Denver to Washington, had an 8-hour tedious wait in the airport, then Washington-Addis Ababa (13 hours) and Addis-Nairobi. The middle, longest flight left 1 1/2 hours late. For no clear reason. Caleb had only an hour to make the connection in Addis, so he was pretty sure to miss that. We were trying to call and email and get through to see if he'd be put on another flight today, no guarantee since they seats may have been full. And the airport in Ethiopia is CHAOTIC. Swarms of people, unruly lines, no clear monitors or gate numbers, buses taking people to planes (never sure if it's the right one). Thankful for two things that saved us: ALL THE FLIGHTS are so late that the connection was still possible, and Caleb didn't wait around but charged straight through, asking questions to find his way. Otherwise he wouldn't have made it. Late, but here.
Quote of the day: "I think I just crossed the entire human spectrum of efficiency from USAFA to an African Airline."

Well, two down, and one to go. The last is Luke, who passed the last exam of his first semester of med school and is now on the flight to Addis. Besides a broken phone and a burned hand, we don't know of any crises yet with his travel. But he's not here yet either.

Friday, December 19, 2014

Shepherds are not an unusual sight around here, one of the perks of Christmas in Kenya. We still get arbitrary politics, pregnant teenagers, donkeys used for transportation, people and animals sheltering together, stars so vivid you can nearly touch them. And the joy of births, many, which we coach and struggle through and celebrate.

Today's Advent thought, though, is about watching and community. This week has been a fairly nonstop and intense one clinically as I jumped into covering colleagues, feeling grateful that I get two weeks of leave coming up. After working four Christmases here, our medical director (cheers for Mardi) insisted that this year we take off. So in the run-up to that I've been trying to fill in and help my colleagues who will so graciously allow me to be gone. On Thursday, however, my friend Dr. Sarah insisted that I leave early. Which was excellent, because I had a quadruple recipe of Christmas cookies to roll and cut for an Advent party that night.

Only I got home, and found that our dog Star was AWOL. She is 14, and lumpy and slow and sometimes gets confused. I've run with her for years and years, but now she drags behind and sometimes takes wrong turns. So I was worried she might walk off and be unable to get back home. We called for her. Then Scott went out on a short walk looking for her as I got started on the massive cookie project (I'm estimating I made several hundred). No sign of Star.

On my way home I had passed three guys trimming the thorny hedge on a path near our house. I thanked them for their pre-Christmas spiffing work. They were not familiar faces to me, and looked on the thin and scruffy side. Every time I went out the door they seemed to pause in their work and watch. It made us feel a little stalked, as I took in laundry. But I decided to tell them about the missing dog, and ask if they'd seen her. They had, in the yard, some hours back. Oh well. Jack came home and we sent him out to look further afield on his piki (motorcycle). No Star.

By this time I had accumulated cookie help so I decided to go out searching for her myself. As I walked out the door, the young men I had talked to called to me. They said they had seen Star. I was having a hard time understanding where, so I just followed them. Two houses over there is a trash pit, about 6 feet deep. There she was, in the bottom of the pit, looking shaky and forlorn. I ran home to get Jack (they guys were clearly a little hesitant about the dog) who climbed into the pit and lifted her out. Rescue success. Jack the hero.

But not the only hero. If those guys had not been hauling off the cut branches in a wheel barrow, they would not have seen her. She was not barking. I'm afraid in her state she might have just died down there. Two days before Caleb and Luke get home. That would have been so hard. I was so thankful for the watchful help from these strangers. I gathered up a plateful of Christmas cookies for them.

It was easy to feel a little suspicious of these laborers lingering over a job, watching our house. Privacy is a luxury. Need leads to community, I find. I would not have found Star without the kindness and willingness of strangers to watch out for us, to get involved. The Shepherds in Luke were probably the age and economic station of these three. Perhaps a bit marginal, perhaps the kind of people who one would not want lingering around the manger. But they were watching. And they had the privilege of finding a real star, and the saviour. In western culture, these might not be the people we would choose to come visit our newborn. But God chose them to watch, and to see.

Real community is like that, watching for signs, alert to the angels, ready to celebrate and to help. I'm thankful for that today.

(A few pictures from more community, the evening Advent open houses we've been having rotating around Lower Station. About 40 people came last night . . . a real party!)

Thursday, December 11, 2014

This prophecy occurs in Isaiah 7, the passage in today's lectionary. And both Matthew and Luke make a clear connection between Mary and this passage. But I think we've lost sight of the reason this is important, when we see Mary with the halo, as if she was uniquely worthy of motherhood, and we immediately dismiss her with an emotional distance and irrelevance.

The point is to show God's power, God's action, God's presence in the story. To show that the rescue is coming from outside human endeavor and will, to show there is another dimension of reality that we do not control. To show that the humble and unlikely are chosen to bear the gift of world-transforming love.

Mary should give us all hope, that any of us can be the means of grace in a world gone awry. Her state of virginity is to make the entire story one of grace.

So it is worse than ironic that the retelling of the story somehow turns her status into a subtle, or not-so-subtle message, that God is looking for the (quote-unquote) holy and pure to deserve blessing. It is bordering on blasphemous if her virginity becomes a message of "be like this to enter the Kingdom." One need only read the rest of the beginning of the Gospels. There is a list of the genealogy of Jesus, and besides Mary, four other women are noted. Not one of them was a virgin before the relationship that resulted in the all-important human lineage that led to the Messiah. Two were widows who took initiative to pretty much seduce their male redeemer-relative in order to get pregnant. One was a prostitute by profession, who jumped sides when the Israelites started their invasion. And one was an adulteress. So it would be hard to extrapolate from that data that God chooses women-who-have-kept-the-rules to be key participants in the redemption plan.

One would conclude, rather, that God likes to shake up expectations, and do the unexpected. Hence, the virgin shall conceive.

Christmas has been coopted by rules, which is the opposite of the point. Mary should make us catch our breath in wonder, not that she was such a perfect young woman, but that God can do anything. Behold, I make all things new. To see the way our human bent to turn grace into law is so insidious and powerful, consider even St. Nicholas, aka Santa Claus, who started off giving gifts to poor children. He should be a beautiful symbol of God's merciful generosity. Instead, as our youngest pointed out listening to music playing at dinner last night, we miss the entire point with the "making a list and checking it twice, going to find out who's naughty and nice." NO!

Christmas is grace, pure and simple. Which is truly good news, for all of us.

Scott and I have the pleasure as Area Directors of assessing new team possibilities for Serge. We were invited to visit Chogoria Hospital, on the eastern slopes of Mt. Kenya, where a consortium of missionaries and Kabarak University are attempting to resurrect a Family Medicine Residency (master's) program. We found a solid facility, with dedicated staff, excellent nursing, strong community support, vision, and hope.

Almost 100 years ago, in 1922, supplies to build a house in the forest were loaded onto 70 ox-carts in Nairobi in April, and arrived at the new site in October. Dr. Clive Irvine spent his life building not only a hospital but a nursing school and a public health system, plus primary and secondary schools, and a church. In recent years, the supporting mission from Scotland decided that Kenya was no longer a strategic focus for their funds. The PCEA church continued many of the programs on their own, but now they would like some help.

The dream is that Chogoria, Kijabe, and Tenwek would all be sites for training Kenyan doctors who want to be able to handle most of what comes to a District hospital. Acute care, emergency medicine, operative OB, neonatal resuscitation, internal medicine, and some of the standard, common surgical procedures. Young physicians who have completed a year of internship and then worked to get some experience would come to one of these three sites for a residency program, which in Kenya is called a Master's. This fits our passion to provide excellent care to the poor, showing the

compassion of Jesus in a hands-on manner, while training a new generation of Kenyan doctors to do the same.

The main thing lacking: consultant physicians to be the teachers, to disciple and supervise and encourage these residents.

There are houses ready and waiting. There is a pretty functional hospital that is sure to fill up when patients see the services return. There are dedicated Kenyan nurses and administrators and groundskeepers and chaplains and lab technicians and interns who want some experienced doctors to come alongside and teach and help them.

The location is a gateway to Eastern Kenya, and beyond, where many unreached people groups still exist.

Perhaps even best, there is leadership in place from one of the only Family Medicine trained doctors in Kenya, and from a mature family (read, "our age") who sensed God calling them into a second career after 25 years in the Navy directing an Emergency Medicine Residency.

Monday, December 08, 2014

When Mary starts to understand what is happening in her body, in Luke 1, she gets a glimpse of the impossible. Life growing supernaturally. God-with-us as a fetus. A world-changing infant. In her song she anticipates the scattering of the proud, and conversely the exaltation of the humble and the filling of the hungry.

The Advent message always includes this inversion, this against-the-odds outcome that blows away the categories the world assigns.

In this context, I can't help but to keep thinking of the Kenyans murdered in Mandera. They were the poorest. People don't live under tarps in a rock quarry on the border of an enemy land breaking rocks by hand into gravel unless they have no other options. Advent gives hope that these people, whose earthly lives were short and bleak in many ways and ended in unspeakable horror, will be honored in Heaven.

And the Queen of Heaven just may be a mom who I also can't get off my mind. A couple weeks ago we admitted a tiny jaundiced hungry baby. Some responsible citizens had organized and brought the baby and his mother to the hospital. Baby W ended up admitted to the ICU as he battled serious overwhelming bacterial infections in his blood and urine. We actually seemed to be clearing the infections, but his liver was failing. What made his situation so desperate was that his mother was mentally retarded, and lived with her own mentally retarded mother. Which is why neighbors had to band together to bring them for care. She was able to feed and hold him when told to do so, but in a better world would have been in a group home with careful supervision. Instead she was probably raped, and became pregnant, with zero social support or capacity. When Baby W was dying one Saturday morning as I came in for rounds, she was sitting by his bedside, seemingly unaware. I asked the chaplain to come up and meet with us, and tried to explain the situation to her. I suppose I expected that this was a bitter best, the kind of death that saves untold future suffering, the early end of a life that was doomed from the start. And I did not think Mama W would comprehend the finality of his death.

Was I ever wrong. I think her wracking sobs as she held his little lifeless body and said goodbye were perhaps the saddest thing I've ever seen.

She had next to nothing in this world, and she lost the only thing she had to love, the only love she was getting back, her baby. Her IQ may have been quite low but her emotional intelligence was perfectly able to grasp her loss. I didn't know what to say, or how to say it, so I just put my arms around her and shed some tears too. Then came home and completely lost it.

Bludgeoned rock-breakers, and a broken woman in grief. These are the people for whom Advent is more than cookies and carols. Advent is survival, is hope, is an eternity where wrongs turn to right. Advent brings the billions sparks of life that are the people of Africa and floods the cosmos with their light.

Thursday, December 04, 2014

The lower-station families at Kijabe have started a tradition of a half-hour evening Advent activity, for as many nights in the month as there are willing hosts. The first was at our house tonight, and our theme was the Glory of the LORD Shall be Revealed, from Isaiah 40 and the Messiah.

We read scriptures from Exodus 24 and 40, 2 Chronicles 7, Luke 2, and Revelation 21, as the kids drew a timeline with symbolic pictures for each place where God's glory was seen. The mountaintop of Sinai, in clouds and thunder. The tabernacle and then the temple, in bright shining dense light, overwhelming, driving out the celebrants, a presence by day and night. The angel host startling the shepherds, announcing God's glory encased in a baby in a manger. And then the final repository of glory, revealed to all flesh: the City of God, the New Jerusalem, where precious gems glisten from walls and all is light. All of these manifestations of glory were irrefutable to the observers. Anyone present could see them, and they left no ambiguity, no doubt.

But I had the kids leave a space between the Luke 2 angel chorus and the Revelation city.

The space we live in now.

Where glory is obscure. Hidden. Not overwhelmingly obvious to all flesh.

Then we read one of my FAVORITE Christmas books, Papa Panov's Special Day. In this story Leo Tolstoy tells of a humble shoemaker, and in his age and loneliness one Christmas Eve he hears a voice telling him that Jesus will visit the next day. He looks eagerly for Jesus in all the people on the street, and in his impatience to find Him the cobbler is reluctant to invite the cold and poor street-sweeper in for soup, or the ostracized single mother begging for rent. But as Christmas day ends, his disappointment in not seeing Jesus is transformed to peace when he realizes that Jesus exists in the "least of these".

So the glory is veiled, and to find it we have to search the highways and byways, we have to talk to the poor, invite them in, serve and love.

The kids went back and drew people in that 5th space, then we glued a small piece of fabric, a veil they had to lift to see that picture.

This advent, lift the veil. Look for Jesus in those least noticed by the world. Find glory broken up and diffused into a billion sparks.

Tuesday, December 02, 2014

Advent season is upon us.
I revel in the decorations we have been putting up in the middle of
Africa for two decades, the Messiah playing on an ipod, the cheery fire
crackling as Kenya’s delayed rainy season seems to have arrived with intent to
pour down two months’ worth of rain in two days. The Advent calendars are hung, and candles
lit.

But Advent is not, first and foremost, a season of ribbons
and light.It is the season of longing,
waiting, expecting, preparing.And longing
implies a lack of that for which we long:

Peace on Earth, because the world is now at war.

Light, because the darkness presses.

Reunion, because we are fractured and lonely.

All things made new, because they are so, so, broken.

In Advent we do not gloss over the chaos and darkness and
evil.They are the context of
coming.

Here in a land where terrorists attacked a bus last week and
brutally shot 28 people, then attacked quarry workers in their tents shooting 32 and beheading 4 of them this morning, where we admit children spindly with
malnutrition, where in the last week we lost a 4-year-old to TB and had a
teenager in the ICU with previously unrecognized AIDS . .

In such a land, watching for the coming of the King is a
matter of life and death.

So we begin Advent fully acknowledging the swirling sea of
darkness, blood, tears.

Our Mission

who we are

paradox:
1. something that combines contradictory features or qualities.
Life in Africa is full of contradictions - the beauty and pain; the abundance and the poverty; the joy and the sorrow.
Our lives, too...dying that we might live; strong in our weakness; sinners yet saints.
2. a "pair of docs"